Seasons
by Pages of Yellow
Summary: Their relationship changes, evolves, like the seasons. And like nature, it is wicked. It is beautiful. Oneshot. M/R Slash.


**Warning for some Morgan/Reid sexy times, language, drunkenness, and fluff. : )**

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><p><em>No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.<em>

Hal Borland

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><p>There is winter in his eyes. The bitterness of breaths turned to white clouds, evaporating in the blue morning. The slippery snap of icicles, drip dropping ice through your veins. The distinctive crunch of boots in snow, and the friction of rubbing dry hands together, and the shiver that races its way up your spine, and the icy touch of air that ripples a chill along your flesh, even beneath your bundle of coats.<p>

Morgan follows him as his long strides carry him angrily from the smell of fresh blood and the lingering echo of the girl's scream. He calls his name out, and Reid grapples with his vest before tossing it over his shoulder, not missing a step.

The Texan sun is hot, the air stiflingly humid and wrong. The sky drifts to dusk with a blazed tangerine horizon and brewing dust clouds in the distance.

"Reid—" He reaches for his friend and tries to spin him to him.

Reid whirls around, yanks his arm away, and glares, almost as heatedly and oppressive as the day.

"Don't, Morgan. Just… don't." His eyes burn warmly and start to itch.

"You can't do this Reid, you—"

Reid's eyes are two hard hazel ice chips as he bites, "Godammit, Morgan, she died. You can't… you can't _fix_ that. There isn't… you just…"

Tumbleweeds roll slowly on the dirt road. It's incredibly cliché and almost laughable. But Morgan does not smile.

He flexes his fingers and wishes there was some way to scrub the pain from Reid's face, which is marred by a mixture of disgust and anger.

"We were right there, I was right there, and she… she died, Morgan. Fuck, why did she have to die?"

He can't think of a satisfactory answer, and a trickle of sweat ducks beneath his collar and slides down the curve of his back before bleeding into his shirt. The soft strands of Reid's hair sway with the breeze as the tumbleweeds scrape across the ground. The dying sun paints Reid's haunted features gold, contrast shadows of his cheekbones making him look gloriously serious and terribly beautiful.

"It's not fair, kid. Nothing about our job ever is." He doesn't offer up the fact that the unsub will never be able to hurt any little girls ever again, because they both already know this and that bittersweet victory has no weight to what they're thinking now.

The breeze picks up into a wind, and loose rocks on the ground rustle with the tumbleweeds dragging along, and they can both hear Madeline Walsh's final, hoarse screams carrying through to their ears on the thick, hot air.

"Why do we do it then?" Reid asks quietly, in a way that makes Morgan think that he's not really expecting an answer. That maybe he doesn't even want one.

Morgan angles his body to stand next to Reid and they both stare out at the blue and purple mountains and the orange sun and the even more orange sky. The desert stretches out before them in planes of rough dirt the color of cantaloupe from the glowing, fading light and the black silhouettes of far away trees, drooping to the ground like sad, tired children. He mulls over Reid's question, and smells sharp, warmly flowing blood in the air that does not belong.

"Because… because one of these times, we _do_ save a Madeline. And that's why do it," he says. Morgan glances over at Reid, notes the way his eyes shimmer an inviting caramel color when the sun hits them and his halo of eyelashes shine blond, and somewhere the ice begins to melt.

Reid inhales deeply from the rust-tainted atmosphere. Deliberates Morgan's answer. He looks at his friend, and their limply swinging arms shift a little closer, fingers brushing as if a special hue of color being applied to portrait.

He takes in the scene of the desert for a final moment, before spinning on a heel, and heading back to the team and the playfully bouncing red and blue lights and the tiny, crumpled body and the larger, slumped one.

Morgan sighs, and follows him.

Reid's eyes stay frozen the jet ride home (which is silent, sans the quiet rumbling of the engines or the occasional turn in someone's sleep, as they're all too exhausted to even think after a case like this) and it makes a deep, unfamiliar part of Morgan ache; he does not miss the heat of Texas one bit.

* * *

><p>There is spring in his eyes. The smell of pollen in the air. The yellow sun, large and warm in the sky. The flowers in the ground, unfurling extraordinary petals of birth and life, reaching the colorful hands to the world above. The way sun freckles fade back adorably around his nose, and grass is a shade greener, and the blue of the atmosphere is a sharper, brighter hue, and the produce isle is suddenly overflowing with exotic and plump fruits.<p>

They're at a dingy bar. It's floors as grimy and the table is waxy, but the booze is good and the ladies like to dance. Morgan, however, finds himself rooted in his seat.

Hotch went home with Jack, Rossi complained about young people, Prentiss made a quip about his hip going out but bailed for a bubble bath and dirty romance novel, JJ stopped the former two's bickering and mentioned a date night with Will, and Garcia is sniffling from a cold, bemoaning about the cruelness of life to a very supportive and tissue equipped Kevin.

This is how Morgan has come to sit at a table that sticks to his skin with thick wax resin every time he accidentally rests his hand on the surface, with none other than Spencer Reid. A very _drunk_ Spencer Reid.

Not that he's judging. He lost all concept of judgment two beers ago.

Reid makes a joke involving the string theory and Schrödinger's cat that doesn't quite land, and Morgan stares at him as if he's grown a second head. But… no, that would be a side affect of his last beer.

Reid isn't able to really finish the poorly constructed joke, and begins to choke in laughter, his face pinching up dramatically, making weird, wheezing noises that nag at Morgan's brain, as they're not exactly natural. His cheeks flush bright red as he reaches out his arms to clutch at the air. He coughs and sputters and looks dangerously close to a seizure.

Morgan is doubled over, holding his gut, laughing at Reid's attempt at a drunken giggle.

A waitress asks them if they'd like her to call them a cab. Apparently they're being disruptive.

Morgan frowns. It's a bar. People are supposed to be disruptive and drunk in bars. He tries to explain this to her, but it comes out: "Look 'ere, la—hic—dy, wur in a _barrrr_. Shee? So'spsed to be loud."

He squints at her face. She has a huge ass mole on her chin. It looks like a witch's wart. He wonders if she's ever tried to pop it. He screws his face up, and says 'ewww' very, _very_ loudly.

Reid starts to apologize profusely, saying that her mole isn't huge at all.

"… beauty mark is fine, and my idiot friend has had too much to drink. That cab would be great, ah, thanks—thank you."

The lady leaves, and Reid sighs across the table at Morgan.

Morgan narrows his eyes. "Hey, yur drunk too." He states accusingly.

"Yes, I am. And I'm also taking your wallet, and leaving a very sizable tip for that poor young woman you just verbally insulted." True to his word, he pulls a hundred dollar bill from Morgan's wallet.

"Hey! You picket-pocket-y-ed me."

Reid smiles.

Morgan thinks Reid looks very nice when he smiles.

He immediately wonders if he's just said that aloud.

"Said what out loud?" Reid asks, head tilting to the side in that curious puppy way.

Morgan bites down on his tongue so hard that liquid pennies rush to his mouth, and he shakes his head, shrugging. He tries not to think of that shot he ordered after he saw Reid's mouth enclose the neck of a beer bottle, and something _completely not allowed_ floated into his mind. Or the round of beers he called out for when Reid laughed, and the sound made butterflies ride roller coasters in his stomach, because it was _obviously_ the alcohol.

They slide into a cab that smells like sweaty people and piss. Morgan remembers to mention this to the driver. Reid pulls some more money from Morgan's wallet (honestly, how the hell did the kid manage to swipe it from him?) to give to the cabbie, and gushes his apologies. The driver just tells him to make sure Morgan doesn't throw up in the car.

On the drive, Morgan snuggles up next to Reid, and rests his head on his shoulder, which is soft and comfortable, if only a little bony. He tells himself it's all just a joke. He can hear Reid's breath hitch, and see pink fullness of his lips, and he tells himself that what he's been feeling for all of these months is friendship. He tells himself that Reid's eyes, clear and warm and expressive, mirroring all of his emotions where his neatly manipulated facial features may not, like a breath of fresh air or the hugging warmth of the sun, _do not_ turn him to a quivering plate of Jello.

He hates Jello anyway. It's not even a real food. It tastes like flavor infused blandness. Stupid Jello.

"Yes, okay, thank you Morgan for your insights on Jello, but do you think we can get inside now?" Reid asks patiently as the two red taillights of the cab blink faintly in the distance. Morgan huffs, and follows Reid up the steps.

It isn't until he's standing in the apartment, scratching his chin in thought, that he realizes where is.

"Wait… why are we at 'chour place?" He slurs, looking to Reid.

Reid rolls his eyes. "Drunk as I may be, I'm not about to let you go home alone in your state."

Morgan puffs his chest. "'Mm fine."

"Sure you are. Here, drink this." He places a cup of coffee in Morgan's hands, and takes a sip from his own mug.

Morgan grins broadly. "Drunk as a skunk and you still can make coffee." He takes a gulp. "That's dedication, man."

Reid shakes his head in silent laughter. "Remind me again why it is you took me out to get so… skunk drunk?" (_Because I can't look at you without wondering. Because I needed something to dull my feelings and I didn't realize we'd end up alone together. Because I want to kiss you and wake up next to you and make little genius babies with you—and even though that's physically impossible, I'd still really, _really_ like to try. Because you're looking at me and sometimes I swear we're thinking the same thing, but neither one of us will say it because then it might be real. Because if it's real I'll screw it up like I do everything good in my life._)

They're standing in Reid's cramped kitchen, Reid backed against the counter, and Morgan leaning on the wall. He can make out Reid's individual freckles that are caused by the sun and only color the bridge of his nose. There are seventeen of them and they're definitely not adorable. "'Cuz, kid, we both needed a night to… ya know, just not think. Sometimes I think you think so much your brains just gonna burst into flames."

Reid rolls his eyes and hiccups. Morgan can smell him from where he is. He smells like cinnamon and the sun and it's a very inviting kind of scent. "That's impossible, Morgan. Spontaneous combustion has been proven—"

He kisses him.

Morgan doesn't really think, he just leans in, and kisses him. He's not sure why.

Okay, that's a lie. He does know why.

It's because he's more then a little drunk, and on a whim of temerity—enveloped by Reid's smell and Reid's full lips moving in some hypnotic dance and Reid, real and flesh and warm, so close and alive and everything he's ever dreamt of—he kisses him.

Reid's words drip off like a leaky faucet as Morgan's mouth covers his, swallowing his voice and any trace of logic. The younger man is frozen in shock, and Morgan is a second away from retracting his boldness when the mug in Reid's is tossed behind him to the sink. Morgan, too, places his coffee cup on the counter.

In an instant, Reid is pushing him back against the wall, heating the kiss quickly. They stumble and grapple with each other and somehow they end up in his living room. Morgan takes an experimental taste of Reid with his tongue, and Reid honest-to-god _moans_.

Morgan feels something spark, and he spins Reid around, pressing him back and back until his spine contours with the wall, solid and cool through his shirt, and he's trapped between that and Morgan's chest, which is heaving a warm, heady breath across his face. Tongues tangle and they bruise each other's lips with hot breaths and hotter bites.

Morgan reaches down to capture Reid's wrists before bringing them above his head, pinning him tightly. He slides his leg between Reid's, and works on Reid's neck, letting him gasp at the friction his thigh is bringing to his groin. Reid growls, guttural and passionate, and pulls his hands away. They head in two directions immediately, one to the back of Morgan's neck so that he may reattach their lips, and the second to Morgan's ass, the grip of which he uses as leverage so that he can squash their crotches together in a manner that leaves little to the imagination.

Reid lifts his mouth, panting and swollen, to Morgan's ear and says, in the most breathy and sexy of voices, "Bedroom."

Morgan nearly melts to a puddle in the middle of the hallway.

Reid shimmies out from Morgan, and tugs suggestively on Morgan's hand, coaxing him to his room. Morgan's body wants nothing more then to comply. But…

There is something stopping him. A little voice that reminds him that he's drunk. And Reid's drunk. And that in all of his imagined scenarios of him and Reid being together (for which there are many, though he won't admit it) none of them involved alcohol. He doesn't want this happen like this. He wants… damn, he sounds like some teen with a crush, but he wants it to be special.

He gives his head a hard shake. "Wait. No. W-we… we can't."

Reid's got that curious puppy look again. Damn him for looking so cute and lusty at once. _How is that even possible?_ "Mmm?" He steps closer to Morgan, who's rooted his feet to the floor, and skims his nose along the older man's jaw line. "And why is that?" He whispers, his breath steaming against Morgan's skin, sending a ripple of tiny, tickling vibrations with his voice, so close and real and wanton. Morgan suppresses a shiver.

"No, Reid—I—Stop. We… we can't." There is more. It is sitting on his tongue (the one that was mapping the inside of Reid's mouth just moments ago) but his brain cannot make his muscles understand what he must convey.

Reid pulls back and looks at Morgan, a playful interest coloring his features. He takes in Morgan's twisted, struggling face, attempting to spit out, to say what he must, what Reid has to know.

Reid's face falls, and he steps away.

"Oh." The word tumbles past his lips and sinks through the air quietly. He casts his eyes—so full of life and beauty and himself—down and turns, walking away. The click of his door closing is the loudest thing Morgan's ever heard in his life.

Morgan stands in the hall. He tries to tell his feet to go to Reid's room, to bust through the door and continue their… erm, _session_.

In stead, he collapses on the couch, and wonders what Reid is thinking.

It isn't until he's teetering, about to dive in, on the edge of consciousness mere minutes later that he realizes he has no idea whether or not he said it aloud.

* * *

><p>There is fall in his eyes. The air slicing sharp and deep in your lungs with each breath. The leaves of trees, dwindling first in color and then in texture, crumbling to red and orange dust in the breeze. The cracks in the sidewalk stained dark with trapped rainwater, and the smell of an oncoming chill of tomorrow, and the gloves that slide over shaky, icy hands, and the sunsets burning bright against the cold blueness of the sky.<p>

Everyone notices, but no one says anything.

This seems to be the rule of their team. When you see someone in pain, you pretend not to notice. Let them figure it out for themselves. They can handle it. And besides, it isn't the team's place to meddle. If they really needed help, they'd come and ask for it.

At least, these are the lies they all tell themselves.

Hotch, as the team leader, asks Morgan once if everything is all right between he and Reid. Morgan says yes, and Hotch can see right through the bullshit answer. But he doesn't comment, simply searches Morgan's eyes for a second longer before telling himself the lie they all tell themselves and dismissing Morgan.

Everyone notices.

Reid, however, doesn't seem to notice that everyone notices. Or maybe he's just better at pretending than Morgan is.

Morgan catches Reid's eye for a fleeting moment, before the younger man turns back to his desk, and continues scribbling on his paperwork. He sighs, and grips his pen tightly, the plastic crinkling like paper under his strong hand.

"Hey, Reid," Prentiss says as Reid rises from his seat, coffee mug in hand, "grab me some coffee?" She dangles the cup out towards him, and he purses his lips. "_Please_." She huffs. His lips twitch, and a hint of amusement sneaks to his features.

"Fine," he snatches the mug from her hand, "but tomorrow you're buying me Starbucks." She rolls her eyes and turns back to her paperwork. They both know she isn't.

Prentiss glances over her shoulder, and then balls up a piece of paper and throws it at Morgan's head.

"Hey! What the hell, Prentiss?" He snaps irritably, squeezing the paper in his hands until his fingernails cut through the thin sheet and meet his palm.

"Go."

"I'm sorry?"

"_Go_. To Reid. You guys need to talk out whatever the hell is going on with you," she says, her dark eyes stern and unwavering. She is breaking the code. She also doesn't seem to care. He's a little bit glad.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, averting his eyes to the scattered papers in front of him. He drops the paper and the pen goes limp in his hand.

"Liar." She challenges, raising an eyebrow and wearing a look that clearly says she isn't buying any of his bullshit.

He groans, and pulls a hand down his face. "You don't… I screwed up. And now he won't even look at me."

"So fix it."

"You don't think I've tried?" He hisses, eyes flashing.

She shrugs. "Maybe. But you probably screwed that up to. You're awful at expressing emotions."

Morgan's about to argue the point but…

"Go on, fix it, before he gets back here and you don't have another chance to be alone with him." He weighs Prentiss' words for a few beats before pushing back from his desk and heading for the break room.

"Oh, and Derek," he pauses to look back at Prentiss, "don't hurt him."

He tries to think of a retort, but finds his tongue thick and suddenly uncomfortable, unable to form words. Prentiss turns away before he can stutter something out. He wonders why her warning has him feeling a weird, sprouting tendril of hope in his chest.

When he enters the break room, he knows that Reid sees him.

Spencer busies himself with the coffee, and only their soft breathing and the quiet clinks of a spoon fill the space between them.

"Hey, um, Reid, can we talk man?" Derek scratches the back of his neck, and studies the back of Spencer's head.

"No."

Well… that's not the best start.

"Look," Derek says, taking a step forward, "I just… I want to talk, okay? I'm sorry that I—"

Spencer turns on him in an instant, his eyes wide and accusing. "That you what? You made out with me while you were drunk and then left the next morning before I got up? Well, don't worry about it, _buddy_, I get it. You were drunk and so was I. Honest mistake." He spits the words bitterly, and Derek crosses the room.

"Hey, no that's not—"

"Not what? Hmm? Cut the crap, Derek. You don't have to apologize. Just let it go."

"Would you let me explai—"

"Stop making excuses. I get if you want to pretend it never happened, but don't lie to me. I thought we were friends."

"We _are_. I just needed time to think—"

"Think?" Spencer laughs a cold, sharp laugh. "That's rich. You needed two weeks to think?"

"You haven't given me a chance to—"

"To what? What do you want from me? I already told you to just forget it, just like you did when I tried to approach. I don't know why you're so hung up on it. If this is about you thinking that the incident somehow damages your masculine bravado, rest assured I'll never breath a word. Although, you should know tha—"

"'Masculine bravado'? What, no."

"It has been shown that—" Spencer's words are muffled by the mouth that is suddenly covering his. He is silenced in surprise at the forceful and messy kiss.

"I'm not… I like you, Spencer. I don't know if you do, but I really like you. And it wasn't a mistake, and I know I was kind of a dick to you—okay, I was a _huge_ dick to you—but… I just… I want this to go somewhere. I mean, I know there isn't really a _this_, but I'd like there to be, and I'd like that to go somewh—" Spencer's lips are warm and familiar on his. Derek instinctively lifts a hand to tangle in the man's hair, which is silkier than he remembered. Eventually, Spencer sighs softly on Derek's lips as they pull away, and Derek feels a smile tugging itself across his face.

"We should really find a new way of shutting each other up."

"I don't know," Spencer nuzzles his nose on the smooth skin of Derek's pulse point, "I think it's most effective."

Derek finds he agrees.

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><p>There is summer in his eyes. The chlorine pools of unnatural blue and scent, splashing toes with the far-off but so-close peals of children's laughter. The oppressive heat of the day against your skin, a too long hug from a great aunt. The sun-soaked concrete radiating through the soles of your shoes, and the smell of sunscreen, and the sizzling leather of a car left to bake in the sun, and the taste of lemonade, mingled with the air of freshly cut grass.<p>

"Will you marry me?" He asks lazily.

Spencer's eyes pop dramatically, and his body stiffens. "W-W-What?" He splutters.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Not _now_. I'm not asking you to actually marry me. I just… do you want to get married? You know, someday?" He props himself on an elbow, and watches his lover, bathed in the morning sun. He wonders if it's too soon. They've only been together for a year, and sure they've mentioned marriage, but not very specifically. Mostly they enjoy being together too much to worry about the future.

The tension seeps out of Spencer, and he relaxes against the pillow, reaching out a hand to gently tangle with Derek's. "I don't know. I never… I suppose I never really thought of it." He pulls his gaze from the ceiling to Derek's warm face. "But… yeah. I do, I think. I mean, one day." His hair is ruffled in that adorable post-Sunday-morning-sex way, and Derek resists the urge to reach over and run his fingers through it—even though he knows he can.

Derek squeezes their hands softly. "So this is like a… pre-engagement?"

A smirk splits Spencer's face. "An engagement to be engaged?"

Derek laughs, and it is a beautiful sound as it echoes off the walls and to Spencer's contented form. "Yeah, exactly. So, Spencer Reid, will you be engaged to one day be engaged to one day marry me?"

Spencer beams, and his eyes twinkle brightly. "Yes." Derek leans down, and steals a kiss that tastes of promises.

"Well, then, good." He grins, and takes Spencer's left hand with both of his.

"What are you doing?" Spencer asks.

Derek says, "Giving you a ring, of course."

"A ring?"

"Well, an invisible ring. So that it can save the space on your finger until the real ring comes. Like… a reservation at a restaurant. Only for your finger." He pantomimes putting a ring on Spencer's finger, and delights in the younger man's laugh. "There it's official. You are now engaged to be my fiancé."

"And you," Spencer captures Derek's left ring finger, and parrots his early actions, "to be mine." He pulls the hand to his lips, and lays a kiss to Derek's knuckles under his grin.

There is a moment where something intense passes between their gaze, but it evaporates quickly, leaving the ease and love of each other's company.

Derek steals a piece of bacon from the buffet of breakfast foods lying on their sheets, and grimaces at the crunch. "Babe, you burnt the bacon again." He garbles around the flaky black chips of what used to be bacon.

Spencer glares. "I did not. And I won't apologize for being worried about all of the dangers raw meat carr—"

"Spence, I really don't care. I will risk salmonella poisoning for some good bacon." He abandons the greasy black strips, and his hand creeps towards the French toast.

Spencer mutters something about bacteria and stomach linings and takes a decisive bite out of his creation. The look that blooms across his face is completely comical. His nose wrinkles and his lips form a sort of frowning snarl. His eyebrows knit together and his hazel eyes widen dramatically.

Derek wheezes for breath around the sticky-sweet battered bread in his mouth as Spencer very conspicuously spits the bacon out into a napkin.

"Ew. Yeah, okay, fine. You're in charge of the bacon."

"You know," Derek wipes small tears of mirth from the corner of his eyes, "you say that every time we make breakfast. And then you go off on some tangent about properly cooking pork, and then we end up with this."

Spencer's cheeks flame, and he picks at the eggs with a fork, flustered. "Yes, well, I'm still a far superior cook than _you_. Or need I remind you of the time you almost burned down the house—"

"That was _once_, Spencer, _one_ time."

"You exploded the stove!"

"First off, that was not me. That was the stove. It was old and barely worked. Secondly, we got a new and much better stove. Blessing in disguise if you ask me."

"You say that, but I think we both know that was the last time you attempted to make baked Alaska…"

The morning light shines on, spilling through the open window of their bedroom and warming the lover's faces. Spencer's eyes are bright and a year of laughs and Chinese take-out and stormy nights and stolen glances and knowing smiles in the office reflect back to Derek's darker ones.

Invisible promises seal tight around skin, and tomorrow is looking better than ever.

* * *

><p><em>Goodnight to the Season!—Another<em>

_Will come with its trifles and toys,_

_And hurry away like its brother,_

_In sunshine, and odour, and noise._

Winthrop Praed

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. But I do see slashy subtext in it all the time. : )<p>

A/N: I legitimately have no idea where this came from. I thinks it's cause of my other multichapter story that I'm working on which is very dark and angsty and emotional (called Holocene, in case that spectacular summary made you want to check it out) that my brain was just like, "Aah! So much inner turmoil! MUST WRITE A PWP MORGAN/REID ONE SHOT OF POINTLESS FLUFF BEFORE I EXPLODE!"

And so then I did.

Weirdly? I do feel better. Clearly writing M/R make-out scenes is good for my psyche.

Heh. There's a Fruedian joke in here somewhere but I'm too tired to find it.

Anyway! This is, as per usual, unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine - apologies for any errors you may find, I try to edit as thoroughly as I can.

Thank you so much for reading! Please drop a review to let me know what you thought. : )

Thanks again for reading, you lovely dove, you!

-Yellow


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